The hardest goodbye; Knowing it’s the last one.

I don’t think on that day I quite realized the gravity of the situation. Or maybe I did. Grams had had a hemorrhagic brain bleed on the cerebellar cortex, which sits just above the brain stem. She had some motor issues and speech problems, but she was still her sassy little self… sort of. Unfortunately, the area where her brain was bleeding had affected her ability to swallow. We had a hard choice to make, in order to honor her very clear wishes to 1.) never have to live in a home and 2.) die in peace. So we took her to a hospice care center, and waited for her body to shut down.

In the midst of all of this remains my own personal family dynamic and plans. Brief synopsis for those who have (understandably) lost track of all moving parts: Hubs graduates course in Alabama, we visit Utah as first leg (extra week…whoo!), we pick up his 3 children in Washington, and I escort them back to Germany (Hubs on a separate departure schedule, to meet in Germany, due to Military travel crap.)

All of this was a great plan until my Grams lie upon her deathbed… then it felt like my own personal torture chamber. These particular familial obligations, escorting the children, could not be put off or avoided… at least not on our modest budget. I also couldn’t conceive of not being there with her, my best good friend, to comfort and love her as she transitioned. But I had no choice.

I have an ongoing silent prayer in my heart that I can grow older with her kind of grace. I have so much fear that these “obligations” which robbed me of being with my grandmother, my best friend, will eventually sour my entire spirit with resentment towards my husband and children; for I was not there. Because I had to take them. I wanted to be but I couldn’t because I had to take care of them. It isn’t fair. And I’m so broken and mad about it, though it isn’t fair to be.

Monday, July 25th, 2016 was the worst day of my life. I walked into the Hospice center that morning knowing it would be the last time I saw my hero alive. Planes were booked, bags were packed. There was no altering the schedule. She had been sleeping, mostly. Her body growing weaker every day. I sat, heartbroken, at her bedside. She knew, too. She’d open her eyes briefly and ask so quietly, “When does your plane leave?” “Couple of hours,” I’d tell her through staggered breath and twisted features. “Don’t cry. I’ll be here when you get back.” She’d say. I shook my head in disagreement, “No, you won’t. Not this time. I’m not coming back.” I said, broken. “I’ll be here.” I didn’t and still don’t know what she meant by that. I hate to think of it.”I’m crying, too. You can’t tell, but I’m crying all the time.” This confession broke my heart. She was so uncomfortable, so frustrated and ready to die. She was literally begging the Lord to take her for days. I think by Monday (day 5) she had figured the Lord didn’t want her, and in that case, I guess she’d just come to differing levels of acceptance at her new impaired ‘life.’

20 minutes or so would go by while she rested, and then she’d stir again, “When are you going to get the children?” she had been asking all week, but the time seemed to blur for her. She never forgot or stopped being concerned about our little family and welfare. “Soon, Grams. I have to go soon. Is that okay? I really don’t want to, and I’ll find a way to stay if you need. Do you want me to stay?” She lifted her right hand, the one unaffected by the stroke, and waved it off as if to dismiss me. Her voice was so soft, barely a whisper… I tried to read her lips but could not make out what she was saying. I had to ask her to repeat herself. “You’re. all. I’ve. got.” She said, intentionally clear and slow for me. Naturally, I lost it there. “No I’m not. What about Dad and (Uncles), (Grandkids) and (relatives)? They’ve been in here with you all the time.” Her eyes were closed and her head bobbed up and down one time, “Oh yah, they’ve been pretty good.” I didn’t say it, but I knew what she meant. I held her hand and wept openly, not prepared but obligated to say my final words and goodbyes. I told her how much I loved her, had always loved her. I asked that she not forget me, be present with me when it comes time for me to have my babies, and gave her permission to close her eyes and feel free to let go at any time. “We always were the best of friends, weren’t we?” She asked, gripping my hands tighter. We certainly were. I kissed her on the head, reiterated to her how very much I loved her, and was sorry that I had to go.

My husband also had a sweet and private goodbye. I wasn’t near enough to make out the conversation, but it was so tender how they were together. He promised to take care of me, “You better!” She had said. “She’s always been my favorite. We’ve just been so close.” These are all things I knew already, but beautiful to know that she wanted to communicate them while saying goodbyes on her death bed.

Grams passed away on Friday, July 29th, 2016 around 12:15 pm. I was able to speak to her on the phone that morning, though she hadn’t actually spoken or been coherent for a day or two. I am told she was “aware” of my voice and speaking, as her eyes were moving and responsive. I just said hello and goodbye. She’s free to go at peace and know how deeply she is loved. And then she did.

As Theodore Roosevelt said in his short journal entry on the day both his mother and wife passed away, “The light has gone out of my life.”

Funny little anecdote… I asked her one day while in hospice care, while she was awake and fidgety, “So Grams. Do you have any famous last words?”

“Yep. Goodbye!”

We laughed and laughed. I love her so. I am not sure how I will stay afloat in this lifetime without her to lean on and gravitate towards, but I guess I’ll just have to try. I am better for knowing her; for every minute I spent in her presence. I sure hope I can be an okay person without her.

When the ones we love leave; Grief and adaption.

July 20th, 2016

Well I suppose it was a rather pertinent time for me to begin writing a blog. This playful game of life has certainly been fond of throwing me curve balls, of late.
I’d have been writing more, but I’m living out of suitcases. Finally left Alabama, visiting my hometown for an unexpectedly long trip due to my husband graduating his course early. Hallelujah (to leaving Alabama… hometown thing is a bonus)!

Of course, first items on my agenda were visiting my 92 year old grandmother, my best friend and dearest earthly being. I told [husband] when I met him, “I’ll never leave Salt Lake; not until my Grams is gone.” Apparently I love him and I lied, but the sentiment remains. She’s the closest thing to a living angel there ever were. Going from weekly visits to annual has been hard. At 92, she’s been still kickin’ in the highest regard. Living alone, completely self-sufficient, still driving her own car…etc. When we got to town a week early, I decided we should stay with her the first few nights. I casually told my husband, “Don’t be surprised if she doesn’t wake up tomorrow. She might just die of joy for having us!” I was kidding. But I wasn’t.

On night two, we stayed up past midnight playing games. Still jet-lagged and groggy, we slept past eleven. Upon waking, the house was quiet and undisturbed. I expected her to be in her usual chair, doing her daily crossword and making jokes about how late we’d slept. But there was nothing. Hesitant, and with an eerily peaceful adrenaline rush, I asked [husband] to go down to the garage and see if her car were still there. It was, which meant she was still in bed. She’s normally up by 9, to watch “the black man” Wayne Brady on Let’s Make A Deal. I was concerned. So concerned, I almost asked [husband] to check on her room too, before I thought better of putting him in such a position. I hesitated and said a silent prayer briefly, then knocked. There was an audible throaty gasp and a brief pause, “Come in!” As I was entering, her hands first went to touch her head in [what seemed to be] shame. A lovely and prideful woman who has worn a wig for many years. Even with me, embarrassed to be seen without her cloak of comfort. “I can’t believe it’s ELEVEN! I’ve slept the day away!” She exclaimed. I was just relieved she was alive, she was concerned about missing out on time spent together.

In the week that followed, we spent at least a few hours of nearly each day with her, sharing meals, telling stories, playing games and laughing as we do. She’s grown even more feisty than I remember her, and I delight in it!

This morning, after sleeping in until eleven again, I see a missed call from my dad. And a text. Grams has been carted to the hospital. Not sure why. Headed there now.

***

That’s as far as I got while attempting to write this story in the moment. As always, left off with the intent to return and finish before publishing. But life happens.

…To be continued in the present day.

 

 

Shifting perspectives – attempting to make sense of the senseless.

The family drama that followed my last post only compounded in on itself. In fact, it was written before the worst of the two incidents which resulted in chaos, screaming, and childish outbursts. For the first time that I can ever recall, being the one who openly loves everyone feels like the ultimate burden.

On the first few days, I willingly stepped into the role of the mediator. I was ready to help clear the debris out of decades of long ignored lines of communication. I was fair, I was honest, and I stood for no bullshit on any side. It sucked, but it was a level of chaos I was well-equipped to navigate. In truth, every party was professing their desire for the same thing. They all wanted it to be honest and fair. I just had to help them talk to each other. Why couldn’t they all just get along, then?

I want to be truthful without airing my family’s bullshit out in public. God forbid anyone find this and end up throwing resentments and anger at ME in 20 years… But let’s just say that’s what happened. One person drank way too much alcohol and acted in a way a person might when confronted with life’s greatest grief and a shitload of booze. The rest of us were wounded and attempting to 1.) calm the afflicted, and 2.)
stand up for ourselves. It went…poorly.

Thursday morning I woke up with a sense of dread and despair. Unknowing of whether or not this would be the last time I ever got to see my dear family together. These delightful people I so love and often brag about, would these be the memories that turn the pages of my story into inevitable repeats of theirs? Anger and resentment… baggage stuffed within baggage and swept under rug?

The rest of the family arrived on Thursday. What a blessing for them, and for us! Looking back, I wish I had waited. Not tried to do “the right thing” and be there for my mother. Just stayed out of it and made my appearance to show respects and mourn. These well-timed arrivals were a Godsend. Where I wasn’t sure if my aunts and uncles would ever speak to each other again, they were a perfect buffer. They were uninvolved in the drama, and eager to spend quality time with each other. By 3 pm on Thursday we felt like a “normal” family again (weird as we are).

Friday was the funeral, a very rough day. Started off with 3 too many cups of coffee, jitters just on time! I read a beautiful letter that was written by my uncle to my Grandfather more than 20 years ago. It was ripe with symbolism about not wanting him to move [on] and how hard of a time he was having with the unavoidable life change. “Part of growing up.” He also spoke of his sisters, and how very badly he wanted everything to be okay again, as it once was, but how terrible he is with words and expressing himself. He wasn’t sure how to get through to them, but he promised to try harder. That was the end of the letter. I PROMISE TO TRY HARDER!

How much more pertinent does the symbolism get than that? With his permission I read the letter and added a few of my own remarks about how important it’s message was. I started out very shaky with some extended pauses, and am really astounded that I managed to pull it together. Answered prayer and divine intervention, that was. Thank you!

Friday was sad. It was supposed to be sad! The visits and laughing commenced right on schedule, following the service. It was nice.

Saturday, however, I awoke again with a to-the-bone feeling of impending dread. It was one of those days you just felt like you’d be better off never peeking your eyes from beneath the covers. After many hours of doing just that, my logic-brain kicked in and started reasoning as to why I “should” get out of bed. Last day to visit with family before going away… living in a different country and time is limited. Blah blah blah. So I did. Got ready and every breath from that moment forward was off. Shit hit the proverbial fan for the second time somewhere around 9 pm, I believe. Because I was elbow deep in the first shitstorm it wasn’t asked of me to be the one to take it on… it honestly felt that it was expected.

Retrospectively, I’d have liked to have just said “fuck off.” but of course, I didn’t. I assumed the role because no one else was stepping up and shit needed to be taken care of. It’s infuriating to look back on it.

The stress of all of this is many times compounded by the fact that I HAVE NO PHONE WITHOUT WIFI. At my grandparent’s house, this meant my phone didn’t work if I wasn’t in an adjacent room to the router. Elsewhere, it didn’t work at all.

This cannot be emphasized as inconvenient enough. Just imagine not knowing where you are going, but trying to find a very drunk runaway grown-up in an unknown area, in the dark, with no way to contact them or anyone else. Alone. While there are 10+ other capable grown-ups watching you have a meltdown while looking at you indifferently.

It was fucked!

I need to remember to address that stuff with the parties involved when I see them. I don’t want to be carrying this shit around for decades to come. My brother came through for me and helped with the driving meltdown. Lost runaway drunk was located. All wrongs were righted; business was taken care of.

I made it to my temporary “home” in Alabama on Sunday, after a travel day worth a blog entry in and of itself. Who doesn’t love 6 hour journeys turning into 20+?!

Here’s the thing though. None of it matters. It was a long hard week full of old family drama and people being cruel and unkind to each other. I tried to help until I reached my limit. I was not always pleasant. The emotional stress and grief took it’s toll on me. I was short and unkind and very bitchy towards the end. (Did I mention I my RAGING period and hormones arrived after a 51 day absence? AWESOME!)

I was honest about my feelings and I called people on their bullshit. I definitely got some cold shoulders during those last two days. WHO CARES?!

I came home with a new delicious appreciation for my husband and our brand-newly beginning little family. I learned things and reflected on the legacy we might hope to leave to our children. I began wondering about how people might speak of us, and who might be present in the end of our lives.

It renewed my strong conviction about taking care of post-death affairs while you’re still here, no matter the age. Make your desires regarding belongings and estate so perfectly clear there is no room for misinterpretation. Get rid of unnecessary junk! HOLY COW, I can’t emphasize that one enough. I think having to move myself to a different country in the last year really helped me in this regard, but I intend to try to live more simply forever. I have found a new delightful pleasure in throwing things away.

That same concept goes for holding onto emotional “things” too. The weight of carrying around anger and pain is too great. It’s so much easier to just love people for who they are, even if you don’t always like the things they say or do. Just ACCEPT THEM and MOVE ON. You don’t have to like someone to treat them with courtesy and respect.

I need to work on this stuff. If not in my own family, in the one I married into, which is already causing my heart to harden and turn cold. I am sure the repercussions of this (very long) week will last a lot longer than expected. I just hope the lessons end up being positive ones. I know that my family may be broken in a lot of ways. That is not a reflection of my love for them. The picture may not end up looking the way I hoped. It’s okay. These relationships are individual. What you see in one does not have to be a reflection of another.

I have to accept that just because I am a gooey ball of lovestuff, it’s okay if some people don’t like each other. It’s not my job to “fix it” or change their minds.

This whole “healer of wounds, savior of the lost” routine has got to end for me, at some point. It’s not my job to fix people that aren’t broken. They are just people! Complex and stubborn and perfectly lovable, just the way they are.

Thanks for reading. xo

 

 

 

Grief and it’s accompaniments

My grandpa died on Saturday. I got the call during our morning breakfast ritual. Living in Germany, and being in the US so briefly, I’m currently reliant on WiFi to connect with the outside world. My mom’s call came in shoddy…”Hello? Jordan? Can you hear me?” My connection was bad so my .03 second delay in response time didn’t (nor does it ever) cooperate with my mom’s short attention span. “Jordan, MY DAD DIED. HELLO? Can you hear me? GRANDPA’S DEAD.”
I could hear her, but she couldn’t hear me, apparently. The call was dropped within seconds and that was that. Grandpa died.

No appetite anymore, I went straight to the computer to look at flights. There are a lot of small airports near where we are at in Alabama; none with affordable last-minute flights to Phoenix. Still, within 24 hours, I arrived and the “work” began immediately.

My grandma just died in April. We were still in Germany at the time and it killed me to miss being with my family, my favorite people, while they were grieving. Especially my mother. Being in the US, it wasn’t going to happen that way again. Apparently I thought that this [mostly] mentally stable and healthy group of siblings would handle this better. I was WRONG.

What a nightmare! The tension and fighting began within minutes of my uncle arriving – after a 12 hour drive – to see his father’s house in chaos as we were sorting through some 10,000+ pictures and keepsakes my grandmother meticulously kept. From that moment, one wrong sentence, misinterpreted, and the whole week was shot. No reasoning, intense grief, decades of resentment, and alcohol – not the greatest combination for a beloved man’s wake.

I hope I find the time and energy to write more about it later. I’ve been thinking of writing, but too covered in the dust of a 72+ year collection of STUFF. Surrounded by baggage resentment that I never knew existed.

I’m heartbroken and disappointed. I’m sad because my favorite family is straight-up BROKEN. It’s not fair to my future kids, or to my parents, or theirs.

He never wanted this, I’ll tell you that. They’re all giving up but I have to stay strong. I really do believe in our family love. I’m too young to take the matriarch role, but shit… I don’t know if anyone else can bear the weight of the shoes.

Right now, it’s a loose fit, but I’m wearing them.

Then I remember that I’ll be leaving country again soon.